A Trick of the Light

“He cried. And Annie saw. And Annie never mentioned it from that day to this. To Henri’s bafflement, Jean-Guy stopped rubbing the dog’s ears and placed one hand on the other, in a gesture that had become habitual now. That was how it had felt. Annie’s hand on his.”

Beauvoir’s first recollections here are short and choppy, as if he can barely manage to recall the raw moment. Instead of words, Beauvoir uses his hands, one over the other, to display the depth of his longing. Beauvoir’s memories of the shooting and his love for Annie are key elements of the theme of The Challenges of Grief and Trauma. Beauvoir struggles to articulate the negative emotions around his suffering, or the positive power of his growing love for Annie, because of his unprocessed trauma.

“Jean-Guy had to give Olivier that. Instead of appearing to accept the apology, Olivier had finally told the truth. The hurt went too deep. He wasn’t ready to forgive. ‘And now?’ asked Annie. ‘I guess we’ll see.’”

Beauvoir’s sharp observations help establish that he is keenly analytical, even amid personal crisis. He admires Olivier’s choice to name his pain rather than deny it—as though he recognizes what he cannot yet do. Annie’s choice to ask a question evokes her father’s habit of doing the same. Beauvoir’s indecision about what lies ahead helps establish that past cases continue to influence Beauvoir’s behavior and emotional state.

“Beauvoir was looking vexed, annoyed, as one so often does around Ruth. But Ruth herself was looking quite pleased. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ asked Marois, his voice excited and low as though not wanting to let anyone else in on their secret. Gamache nodded.”

Gamache’s observations confirm his grasp of Ruth’s mischievous nature and her longstanding dynamic with Beauvoir. Marois recognizes her as the subject of Clara’s painting, establishing that he is as observant as Gamache himself. His decision to hide the information sets up his competitive nature, a character trait that Penny uses to build the theme of The Destructive Power of Jealousy.

“‘I don’t know what came over me. It’s like sometimes when it’s very quiet I feel like screaming. And sometimes when I’m holding something delicate I feel like dropping it. I don’t know why.’ He looked at the large, quiet man beside him. But Gamache continued to be silent. Listening.”

Peter adopts a confessional tone, almost as if Gamache has accused him of a crime. His revelations do hint at moral transgressions—he sees fragile things as opportunities to demonstrate his strength, not his capacity to protect, which reflects The Destructive Power of Jealousy in his character. Peter seems to expect scorn, or censure, but Gamache only bears witness. His choice to listen reveals his patience, one of his assets as both a person and an investigator.

“Once again Olivier felt the bitter cold scraping his cheeks. Heard his feet shrieking on the hard snow. And saw the warm bistro through the mullioned windows. His friends and neighbors over drinks, talking. Laughing. The fire in the grate. Safe and warm. They on the inside. He on the outside, looking in.”

The catalogue of physical sensations in this moment indicates that Olivier has been transported into the past—his feet “shriek” as if they have the power to cry out from cold or express his fear and anxiety. The inside of the bistro is another universe, one of fellowship and physical comfort, reflecting the importance of houses and communal spaces in the text. In his grief and regret, Olivier imagines himself as deserving isolation, telegraphing The Challenges of Grief and Trauma.

“Gamache leaned slowly forward, toward Castonguay, ‘if you’re thinking I might find the murderer and let him go…’ The words were friendly, there was even a mild smile on the Chief Inspector’s face. But even André Castonguay couldn’t miss the gravity in the voice and eyes. ‘No. I don’t believe you’d do that.’ ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Gamache leaned back in his seat once again. Beauvoir stared at Castonguay a moment longer, making certain he wasn’t about to challenge the Chief again.”

Gamache’s gradual movements and intentional pauses underline that his decency does not mean he lacks power. He nearly dares Castonguay to call him unprofessional, as if goading him. Castonguay’s lack of discernment here mirrors his attitude toward art, where he prefers Peter’s work to Clara’s and denigrates her talent. Beauvoir is protective here, refusing to relax even after Gamache has—this underlines his strong bond with his mentor, a cornerstone of the series.

“‘They’re raving, Clara,’ said Myrna with a smile so wide it hurt. The pages dropped from Clara’s hand and she looked at her friend. The one who’d whispered into the silence. Clara got up. Arisen, she thought. Arisen. And she hugged Myrna.”

Myrna’s obvious pride and joy here affirm her loyalty and love for Clara and is a stark contrast with Peter’s refusal to face Clara’s triumph or celebrate it. Clara looks at Myrna and sees the depth of their past, Myrna’s willingness to “whisper into the silence” to give her encouragement and support when others did not. Clara’s evocation of “Arisen” evokes a kind of resurrection, as if she is reborn not only through critical acclaim, but through Myrna’s steadfast love for her—an antidote to The Destructive Power of Jealousy and isolation.

“‘That’s the funny thing,’ said Paulette, ‘everyone remembers the quote, but not one remembers the artist.’ Both Beauvoir and Gamache knew that wasn’t true. He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function. Clever, almost a compliment. But then it veered into a scathing dismissal. Someone would remember that review. The artist himself.”

Paulette helps establish that Lillian’s goal was notoriety for herself, rather than contributions to the artistic community and its knowledge. Lillian is both “clever” and “scathing,” using her intellect like a weapon. The review approaches the line between profanity and civil discourse, calling the art excrement without using the word. Lillian clearly relished destruction, and Beauvoir and Gamache recognize this as a motive for the most brutal kind of vengeance. The passage also contains a misdirection, as people remember the quote as referring to a “he” when it was actually aimed at a female artist—Suzanne.

“‘As I remember you thought it might simply be a trick of the light.’ ‘I still do. But how remarkable is that? For Clara Morrow to, in essence, capture the human experience? One person’s hope is another person’s cruelty.’”

This exchange between Gamache and Morris not only evokes the work’s title, but also the thematic importance of Art as a Reflection of Self. Marois is cynical, wondering if the hope Clara depicts is illusory, while Gamache takes the painting as Clara intended it. Clara’s art is a kind of litmus test: Those who dislike It or see it only as something to exploit, are untrustworthy, while those who admire it are more astute, if not more moral.

“‘And the London Times said, Clara Morrow’s art makes rejoicing cool again. Don’t forget, Clara,’ she whispered. Ruth turned away again and sat ramrod straight, alone with her thoughts and her heavy, stone bread. Glancing, occasionally, into the empty sky.”

Ruth is uncharacteristically generous here, celebrating Clara as Myrna does. It is likely significant Ruth’s bread is compared to a stone—Clara portrays Ruth as Mary, and in the Bible, stones are used to maim or kill, or, as at the tomb of Christ, they are rolled away to reveal miracles. Ruth watches the sky, waiting for Rosa, as if also waiting to see what kind of stone she holds. Ruth gives Clara hope while waiting for her own.

“Jean-Guy Beauvoir trusted Gamache with his life. He opened his mouth, the words hovering there, just at the opening. As though a stone had rolled back and these miraculous words were about to emerge. Into the daylight. I love your daughter. I love Annie.”

Though Beauvoir trusts his mentor absolutely, he cannot speak his true feelings, as if his body contradicts his mind. His thoughts are “at the opening” like a “stone rolled back”—a direct allusion to the tomb of Christ on Easter Sunday, as if Beauvoir will be free from suffering if he can only face his emotions and The Challenges of Grief and Trauma. Penny uses similar language for Clara’s painting of Ruth, underlining the idea of resurrection and redemption as part of her vision of trauma recovery. Beauvoir seems to believe only his love for Annie can save him, but is not yet ready to confront his struggles with self-love.

“‘As you know, I wasn’t able to protect my own people,’ said Gamache. ‘But at least I tried. You don’t?’ It was clear Fortin hadn’t expected the Chief Inspector to confront the event directly. It threw him off center. Not quite as stable, Gamache thought, as you pretend to be. Perhaps you’re more like an artist than you like to believe.”

Gamache pursues authenticity even during an interrogation. He admits to his failure during the warehouse raid, offering his pain in hopes of receiving truth in return. Gamache also sounds triumphant here, as if his self-possession has brought him an investigative truth. Though he does not yet know for certain that Fortin is the killer, his observation that the gallery owner is “like an artist’ reveals that he understands the other man’s true weaknesses, which later expose him.

“He’d left it by the phone. Under the phone. Pinned there, for safe keeping. He’d been meaning to show it to her. It had just slipped his mind. From where she stood Clara could see the police tape, outlining a ragged circle in her garden. A hole. Where a life had ended. But another hole now opened up, right where Peter stood.”

Peter’s self-descriptions grow increasingly more honest, as he reveals eventually that he had hidden the messages, though he deludes himself that this is to keep them safe rather than to protect his ego, reflecting The Destructive Power of Jealousy. He insists the messages have “slipped his mind,” a casual approach to his own cruelty. Clara’s reaction betrays the depth of her pain, and the way her view of her marriage is transforming. Peter is jealous like Lillian, and he is swallowed up by his own envy, its own kind of death.

“It looked like a prison for sinners. Few would enter with an easy step and light heart. But now another memory stirred. Of the church bright, not quite in flames, but glowing. And the street he was on a river, and the people reeds. This was the church on Lillian Dyson’s easel.”

The carceral and spiritual language here suggests that substance dependency creates a kind of figurative prison, with recovery and AA as the redemption. “Few would enter” may evoke the Gospel of Matthew, about how many are called to hear the Gospel but few will convert. Gamache sees the building differently, however, once he is reminded of Lillian’s art—the building becomes hopeful and redemptive. Though the two were no longer close, Lillian’s sobriety gave her the gift Clara has, to see the best in unlikely places, invoking Art as a Reflection of Self.

“Beauvoir bristled. He didn’t like this bawdy, brassy woman. Loud. And now she seemed to think he was one of them.”

Beauvoir’s hostility to AA, and the meeting members, combines his characteristic skepticism of spirituality with his unwillingness to accept his own substance use disorder, reflecting The Challenges of Grief and Trauma. He calls Suzanne “bawdy” and “brassy,” betraying his dislike and distrust through sexist implications she should behave differently. He does not want to be “one of them,” revealing his need to see himself as apart from those who struggle and need support.

“‘Well? What was it? Let me guess. It was your mother’s fault? Your father’s? Was it that you had too much money or not enough? That your teachers hurt you, and your grandfather drank? What excuse are you dreaming up now?’ ‘No, you don’t understand.’ ‘Of course I do, Peter. I understand you too well. As long as I was schlepping along in your shadow we were fine.’”

Clara’s furious torrent of questions betrays her sense of betrayal and emotional fatigue. She sees Peter as continually searching for others to blame, cataloguing all the ways he might use his personal history to avoid accountability. Clara reveals that she once saw herself as “in his shadow,” and is now asserting her dignity. Clara’s exhaustion is with The Destructive Power of Jealousy and its role in her life, mirroring her relationship with Lillian. This final confrontation brings her series-long struggle for self-actualization to fruition.

“All that had faded, gobbled up by the OxyContin. But one thought remained. Followed him to the edge. Restaurant Milos. The phone number, now hidden in the desk drawer. Every week for the past three months he’d called the Restaurant Milos and made a reservation. For two. For Saturday night. The table at the back, by the whitewashed wall. And every Saturday afternoon he canceled it.”

Beauvoir’s pills are almost animate in this scene, “gobbling up” his emotions as if they are a kind of monster with their power over him. He has hidden the phone number Gamache found, underlining his struggle to face his feelings. The setting appears in front of him, like a ritual, a private sacrament of romantic hope. Beauvoir can see the place, but balks at making the dream real, held back by The Challenges of Grief and Trauma and fear.

“She’d often said silent prayers at a crime scene. When everyone else had left, Isabelle Lacoste returned. To let the dead know they were not forgotten. This time, though, it seemed the Chief’s turn. She wondered what he was praying for. She remembered holding that bloody hand and thought maybe she could guess.”

Lacoste’s quiet, private faith is a gentle, though unmistakable, contrasts with Beauvoir’s calculated cynicism and denial. Lacoste sees herself as owing obligations to the dead, assuring them they are part of her—a faith as clear as Clara’s painting of hope. Lacoste’s self-knowledge makes her compassionate, as she watches Gamache and remembers keeping vigil with him when he was near death. She is, however, not haunted by this, merely seeing him “taking his turn” as if facing the spiritual world is inevitable.

“‘Do you really believe there was more you could’ve done?’ Beauvoir turned away, feeling the familiar ache in his belly turn into jabs of pain. He knew Myrna was trying to be kind but he just wished she’d go away. She hadn’t been there. He had, and he’d never believe there was nothing more he could have done.”

Myrna’s probing question here reveals her compassion and the lingering effects of her prior career as a therapist. She tries to push Beauvoir away from his guilt, but instead it turns corporeal, as if he carries it in his body. He longs for isolation, not as a place to forgive himself, but as the space to self-flagellate and blame himself. Beauvoir refuses clarity, because guilt has made him believe he has not earned it.

“And the Brunels had one other, outstanding, qualification. They were nearer the end than the beginning. As was he. The end of all their careers. The end of all their lives. If they lost either now, they’d still have lived fully. Gamache would not put a young agent on this case. He would not lose another one, not if he had a choice.”

The continued use of “end” here betrays that Gamache is deeply aware of his own mortality after the warehouse raid. He is also clearly aware of the kind of social death that awaits those who may unmask corruption. His emphasis on his own age, and the desire to protect those younger than he is, betrays his lingering grief over the death of several young agents in Bury Your Dead, including one of his proteges.

“Hearing the gunfire behind him. Hearing the cries for help. Hearing them die. He’d spent the past six months trying to get beyond this. He knew he had to let them go. And he was trying. And it was happening, slowly. But he hadn’t realized how long it took to bury four healthy young men and women.”

The repetition of “hearing” betrays that it is sound, rather than vision, that transports Gamache back into The Challenges of Grief and Trauma. Gamache recognizes that healing is an uneven process: He is “trying” rather than “succeeding,” but the process is at least happening. The visual of burial establishes that Gamache sees himself as a kind of father and priest—only he can lay his agents to rest.

“‘Do you think, maybe, we’ve ended up in the same cell?’ asked Gamache. When Olivier didn’t respond Gamache walked toward the door then hesitated. ‘But I wonder who the guards are. And who has the key.’”

Gamache’s question returns to the metaphor of prison, previously used about the church where the AA meeting gathers. Gamache acknowledges he and Olivier are both unable to move forward, though they are not physically constrained. Gamache extends the metaphor, asking, in effect, whether they are the ones who can liberate themselves. His question reads as encouragement, to both Olivier and himself, to look at the past with clarity, rather than self-recrimination.

“‘I want them to remember a corpse in your garden. I want you to remember that. To think of your solo show, and to see Lillian, dead.’ He glared at the semi-circle of faces. They looked as though he was something fetid, something fecal. The lights flickered, then dimmed.”

Fortin’s bitter words here emphasize that his murder was a drive for power: He “wanted” both Lillian and Clara to suffer and worked to make those desires real. He hopes Clara’s art will become about death, and murder, as if her art is her faith he wants to believe he has desecrated it. Even the physical environment recoils from him, threatening to plunge the room in darkness rather than let him stare at the others.